


beneath a curious moon

by tangerine_skye



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Sad and Sweet, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23294449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerine_skye/pseuds/tangerine_skye
Summary: As a small stone thrown in a lake will cause a resonating effect that ripples outwards, ever expansive, it is in the same way that this small action, this minute moment in history, has such an effect on Javert.(In a fleeting moment, Valjean kisses Javert as a means of distraction. Javert finds that he can’t stop thinking about it.)
Relationships: Javert & Jean Valjean, Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 9
Kudos: 99





	beneath a curious moon

The lamps in the hospital are dim: a pale, sickly yellow, that wavers uncertain shadows against the wall. The light is uneasy, as though unsure of how far it may stretch, and what secrets it may uncover within the deep recesses of the room. It elongates and disfigures the two men captured within its path, glancing strangely off contorted limbs.

Javert has the chain wrapped around Valjean’s neck, but the criminal is strong, far stronger than Javert. An elbow connects sharply with ribs. Javert’s hold falters as he stumbles backwards, and the handcuff chain loosens. His shin hits the leg of the bed where the woman Fantine remains silent and still. She is a ghostly image with her hands clasped together, skin pale against her white gown.

Javert’s momentary loss of balance allows Valjean to slip away, but he does not move quickly enough as Javert’s fingers hook into his coat and sink into the flesh of his arms, fingers a vice grip around his wrists to draw him closer. Javert grins, sharp canines peeking past his lips in a snarl as he uses his weight to push Valjean against the wall, restraining him.

Valjean’s face is contorted with a furious invigoration. His breathing comes short and fast, cheeks a patchy red. His eyes are wild. Javert growls and holds him tighter as Valjean struggles against him.

“You cannot escape me 24601,” he spits.

Valjean looks at him. Their eyes snap together. Something unreadable passes over Valjean’s eyes and he leans closer.

It takes Javert a moment to realise what is happening. The action is so completely incomprehensible that he is unable to register it initially, the shock annulling his senses.

He stiffens, mortified, as Valjean’s lips touch against his own.

It is not a pleasant kiss, nor is it entirely unpleasant, but Javert trembles all the same, as though his limbs have been suddenly disconnected from his body. He gasps, shock and disgust inching down his spine as he jerks backwards, flailing and stumbling for purchase amidst this bizarre, alternate reality.

Valjean, ever the opportunist, uses this chance to knock him down.

It takes Valjean only a gentle push, a press of hands near the thrumming heart, as Javert continues to wrestle with regaining control over his senses. Javert falls to the ground hard, hands catching the weight of his body, palms flaring with pain as they graze the floor.

Valjean looks at him then, a halo of light around the rim of his hair, as though he is the angel of death come to look with pity on hapless fools. The look curdles unpleasantly in Javert’s chest.

“I’m sorry,” Valjean says, a mere whisper over the thundering that deafens Javert’s ears.

Then he is gone, a phantom in the night.

Javert blinks and inhales a wavering breath as he desperately tries to soothe his rapid heartbeat. He is on his knees, a prayer of stunned silence. A trembling hand is pressed to trembling lips in a futile attempt to wipe away the evidence. It does little to help. His body feels cold, but the warmth of Valjean’s mouth pressed against his own lingers long after.

As a small stone thrown in a lake will cause a resonating effect that ripples outwards, ever expansive, it is in the same way that this small action, this minute moment in history, has such an effect on Javert. He finds himself haunted by this strange occurrence in the nights and then years to come. There are many unanswered questions that spiral in his mind as the ghost of a mouth pressed against his own refuses to cease its haunt. His desire to find Valjean and to bring him to justice is now coincided with a new desire to understand the moment that passed between them. Javert knows that all things have meaning, that everything is bestowed by God’s grace, yet he continues to wonder about the meaning of that moment. It was a trick of course, another sinful act from a hardened criminal. It is abhorrent, repulsive - it makes him feel queasy to think on it.

He cannot let himself think on how it turns his stomach in other ways too, and how it sets his heart racing. How sometimes at night, he wakes alone in the darkness to twisted sheets, flushed skin, and the hoarse whisper of a name on his lips.

It is a dark night, foreboding, as the moon continues to hide. What little light peeks through the curtain of cloud pools near Javert’s feet, gingerly touching the toes of his boots as though it is too shy to spread any further. It illuminates the clouds above from behind, a rim of pure white captured against shadowed softness. The stars are hidden too, tucked neatly beyond the omnipresent blanket of darkness.

It is of course due to the persistent plague of unfortunate luck which follows Javert, that Valjean finds him at the barricades. There is a shame that quickly settles in the fall of Javert’s head, hands tied behind him on the chair. His posture is rigid though, the semblance of defiance. It is somehow always this way, no matter how they meet. Valjean manages to make Javert feel as though his authority has been dismantled, scattered to the wind, as lost as the stars are on this treacherous night.

Valjean slides the knife between Javert’s hands and, for a moment, Javert feels his stomach drop. He assumes he does not fear death and yet, there is a deeper instinct within him that continues to cling to a desire for life. It only rears its head now, in the bleakest of moments.

Javert waits for pain, for dizziness, for darkness, but nothing changes. Instead, the tension that binds his hands is loosened, and as he moves them, the rope slips away. Valjean has cut him free.

He looks at his wrists.

“What have you done,” he hisses, throwing a sharp glance towards Valjean.

“You are free,” Valjean says. His eyes are not as hard as Javert might expect. Instead, they are almost gentle, wary, as though he is coaxing a frightened animal to safety. Javert blanches at the thought. He refuses to be so helpless, and he refuses to grant Valjean the luxury of such virtuous praise.

“You must want something,” Javert says, moving to stand. “You would not let me go. I know your kind.”

Valjean’s lips curve in a wry smile that does not reach his eyes. He places the knife down slowly on the ground, eyes never leaving Javert’s face.

“You do not know me as well as you think you do,” he replies quietly.

The moon above them suddenly crests over the clouds and pale light filters through the darkness. It casts a stark shadow across Valjean’s face and Javert marvels at how old he seems. The lines near his mouth are deep in their concavity and the wrinkles across his forehead map the many lives he has lived. They have engaged in this chase for far too long.

“You underestimate me Valjean,” Javert snarls, the slip of the name tumbling carelessly from his lips in his furious denial. He stalks closer and grasps at the lapels of Valjean’s coat. Valjean’s eyes glance down for a moment, before they return to Javert’s face. There is a calmness there that settles in his solid gaze.

Javert feels a fresh surge of anger rise like bile in his throat. There is no closure here, Valjean refuses to give it to him.

Valjean blinks and exhales slowly. The lack of strong emotion only infuriates Javert further. He needs Valjean to be as furious as he feels. He needs to see the anger of a criminal. That anger and fury encompasses the convict he chooses to acknowledge – _that_ is the man he has hunted. Yet Valjean is a stubborn fool who never plays by the rules.

There is something else alongside the anger too. A tension growing taut, ready to snap at the simplest touch. It is the phantom that has haunted Javert for so many years. He feels it in the heat between their bodies, the dark eyes that never falter, the heart which beats loudly against Javert’s knuckles pressed into the chest before him. The loss of control is what he resents more than anything else.

“Why did you do this to me,” he growls, voice low. Valjean looks tired, weariness sinking into the slouch of his shoulders and the lines of his face. Javert would like to draw his thumb along the crease of Valjean’s mouth, the memory of smiles faded into the downward curve of exhaustion.

“I have done nothing to you, Javert,” Valjean replies.

“In the hospital, when you-” Javert says, unable to speak the damning words into the space between them. There is an odd sense that by letting them slip from his tongue, it may just further confirm their existence. It would prove that this was a moment that occurred between them.

Heat crawls up the back of his neck and flushes his cheeks. He feels trapped beneath Valjean’s gaze, but he does not falter or look away. He is not so easily discouraged. Valjean’s eyes widen just minutely, perhaps easily missed, if not for Javert watching him with the keen eye of a hawk.

He despises Valjean. He wishes he could arrest Valjean and return him to the gallows. He wishes he could shout at him, scream at him, tell him all number of terrible things he would like to do to him.

Javert instead, kisses him.

Valjean’s lips are dry, chapped from the bitter chill that persists during their most recent nights. There is the faint taste of iron, blood, from where he has worried his lip raw. It is a habit Javert remembers well from Montreuil-sur-Mer.

Javert feels Valjean tense against him and that heart that beats against Javert’s fingers quickens in pace to match Javert’s own. Two hands grasp at Javert’s shoulders and gently push him away.

“Javert, what are you doing?” Valjean asks. He sounds dazed and distant. Javert looks at him, at the blush against his cheeks, the strange softness in his eyes, the redness of his lips. Shame crashes into him, overwhelming and unbearable. He staggers backwards, blinking rapidly.

“A lapse of judgement,” Javert mutters, more to himself than Valjean. Valjean reaches a hand forward and then falters. A strange look passes over his face, a rare insight into the conflict within.

“Javert,” he says again. Javert wishes he would stop saying his name like that. It is not unkind, nor cruel although it has even reason to be. Instead it is careful, hesitant but gentle. It is far more than he deserves.

Javert shakes his head, the wildness within him surging to the forefront again. He feels unhinged. His head is burning with thoughts that cannot be tamed. With a final look towards Valjean, Javert turns and walks away.

The moon continues to be cautious as it wavers in puddles on the cobblestones, dashed away by heavy footfalls that move quickly and quietly through the darkness. Javert wanders at first with no intent, watching the shadows on the ground at the fall of each step. There is a point in which the trembling stops however, somewhere not too long after the sound of the final ricocheting bullet fades into the breeze. He continues to feel a pull towards Valjean, a need for closure and clarity that he is so continuously denied. It whispers to him incessantly the many ways in which he has failed. It suggests that there is still hope for him though, that perhaps he can return to where he left Valjean and finally put an end to this ripple which has become a crushing wave.

When Javert finds Valjean next, he finds him with a boy draped over his back – always acting the part of the saviour, never playing his truth as the damned. When Valjean sees Javert standing before him he flinches, holding the boy tighter.

“I cannot go with you,” he says, a desperate plea in his voice. It is the same voice that Javert has heard so many times before. Javert keeps his arm raised, gun held between trembling fingers. He will not falter this time.

“You’ve played this trick on me before,” Javert says through gritted teeth. Valjean looks haggard. He is covered in dirt and grime, and the unspeakable remnants of everything else that lies within the sewers. He has a cut against his head and blood crusts on one feathered eyebrow.

“He is running out of time Javert,” Valjean says. There is a fury to his eyes, but it is the kind that motivates towards what is just. It is a feeling Javert recognises.

Javert’s hand shudders violently and then, the hand holding the gun falls to his side. He feels exhausted and his shoulders slump forward. The ground beneath his feet is crumbling and he is stumbling, he cannot find sure footing. The world is collapsing around him and Valjean stands there in front of him, the epicentre of chaos.

“Just take him,” Javert says. His voice no longer sounds like his own. It is distant to ears that are preoccupied with the roaring of waves, numb to reality. He stares, unseeing.

A light touch to his shoulder grounds him for a moment and he turns to see Valjean beside him. He is so close that Javert can count the number of eyelashes that brush against the pale cheeks. Valjean’s mouth trembles and his words stall in his throat unspoken. The fingers touching Javert’s shoulders grip tighter, a reassuring pressure. Javert focuses on them, his breathing slowing. He feels the way they dig into his skin and even through the fabric of his coat, warmth seeps between them.

“Thank you,” Valjean says finally. As he speaks, it is clear there is more he wishes to say but he makes no attempt to continue. Instead he swallows. Javert watches the bob of his throat.

There is a pause held between them, quiet and still in the night. Valjean leans closer and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek. Javert inhales a shaky breath and Valjean offers him a tight smile.

And then he is gone, footsteps retreating into the shadows of the night, the phantom once again returned to the shadows.

It is unclear how he manages to end up here. It is certainly not by any overwhelming decision of his own. But as he stands on the bridge overlooking the river, his thoughts settle into something more resolute.

Javert glances over the edge, a numbness encompassing him. The water churns beneath him, a violent sight that mirrors his own flurried thoughts. Further away, the ripples of motion vanish beyond sight, settling once again into the calm stillness of the river. It is here, in this quiet, that the glassy surface of the water reflects the streetlamps, small droplets of warm light overwhelmed within otherwise dark depths. They remain luminescent with misplaced hopefulness.

No moonlight illuminates the surface. The moon has disappeared once again as the stars refuse to shine. The blackness is overwhelming, drowning him in the darkness. A gentle wind touches his collar and teases his hair, a chill creeping across his skin. It carries the scent of the water with it and cries softly in despair.

He wonders what this means. He wonders what he deserves.

A hand grabs at his arm and pulls him backwards. Fingers clench tightly, digging into his skin. There is a hiss near his ear, angry words fuelled by fear.

“What are you doing?”

It is Valjean, of course. He will never leave Javert alone. His eyes are alight, furious with the anger that Javert had so longed to see earlier. It is the anger Javert had tried to entice. Instead now, it seems almost comical, another cruel twist of fate. It sinks in his chest, heavy with despair. He pushes Valjean away none too gently.

“Leave me be. Haven’t you done enough?”

Valjean grabs at him again, insistent.

“There is nothing that is worth this,” he says. There is a sadness there that underlines his words. It does nothing to calm Javert and instead, it kindles his fury. He snorts derisively, a snarl curling his lip.

“I will not tell you again, leave me be! This does not concern you.”

Valjean holds him fast. His hands are large and steady, despite the wildness of the eyes that meet Javert’s gaze. Javert finds he cannot pull away.

“It does concern me,” Valjean says, “I will not leave you.”

The feeling of disempowerment, that he cannot even make this one choice without Valjean’s interference, weighs on his heart. The anger that had been burning so fiercely in his chest falters suddenly, flickering to a mere wisp of flame before it is extinguished by the heaviness of hopelessness. Javert slumps in his position, so quickly in fact, that Valjean is forced to hold him upright rather than restrain his movement.

“You take everything from me,” Javert says, “You would take this too.” His voice is quiet, a hoarse whisper on the breeze. The effort needed for the words exhausts him. He cannot look at Valjean, so he lets his gaze fall towards their feet, dully traversing the smooth curves of their shoes.

“I am sorry,” Valjean says, “But I cannot allow this.”

Javert closes his eyes. He has no power here, Valjean has snatched it all from him. There is a pain in his head that burrows into his skull. The thoughts that had flown so furiously before, now fall like feathers. Aimless and futile, they flutter to the ground and vanish into nothingness. The pain is all that is left, an ache that settles in his head and his heart.

When he opens his eyes, he notices that the moon has returned to the sky. Perhaps the moon is more curious now, as it settles at the forefront of the clouds, emitting a brilliant glow. The light catches in the soft curls of Valjean’s hair, and pools in his eyes. It does not seem to lack warmth, as moonlight so often does, instead it seems to burn, radiant and proud. Javert feels he must squint so that he is not blinded by it.

He is unsure of what happens next. He knows Valjean speaks to him and he answers and then they are walking, though Javert cannot make sense of where they go. Valjean’s hand is a warm guide against his back, his gentle words murmuring reassurance against his ears as the moon watches them from above. They move across the bridge, down the streets and past hidden alleys, Valjean silent and sure at his side. It is in this way, this dissociative travelling, that they somehow end up at Javert’s building and Javert dutifully gives them access.

The door shuts behind them, a sure click of the latch. It is dark, and Javert lights a lamp to ease the shadows. Valjean stands by the door, hesitant. There is a furrow between his brows, and he does not look at Javert.

“I am home now, I am safe. What more do you want?” Javert says. The words are curter than he expects them to be, sharpened by exhaustion and frustration. It has been a long night.

“I think,” Valjean says, and then pauses. He licks his lips, frown deepening. “I think I would like to talk with you.”

Javert scoffs. He is not angry anymore; he does not have the energy to hold it within him. His anger is like a puddle on a warm summer’s day, evaporating in the light of the sun.

“I’m sure you have better things to do,” he says tiredly.

“Javert,” Valjean says, and Javert feels his heart stutter at the sound of his name in Valjean’s mouth. He is exhausted, but it awakens him in some way. He looks at Valjean.

“You kissed me” Valjean says.

Javert bristles at the words, lips pressed into a thin line, somewhat indignant.

“You did so first.”

“It was only so I could escape to save Cosette.”

“Is that why you did it again tonight then? So you could escape with the boy? I would have let you go. I do not need your pity.”

Valjean looks away, though Javert does not miss the flash of hurt that crosses his face before the angle shadows his expression in darkness. There is something else there too, confusion, and tension, Javert understands it too well.

“No,” Valjean says slowly. He is tugging on his own sleeve, fidgeting with the cuff of his coat. His fingers press into the fabric and smooth it repetitively, an unconscious motion – a nervous one. “I did not do that out of pity.”

“You do not feel the same way,” Javert says bluntly. He hadn’t meant to say it, but now he has, he realises that this is what it is, an unrequited feeling. An action spurred from self-defence, a misunderstanding that became something significantly more. It shames him, and his face burns with the admission.

“It is fine,” Javert continues, steeling himself, “We will never speak of it again. You may leave freely to live with your Cosette. I will not follow.”

Valjean’s face resurfaces from the shadows, the light accenting his sharp nose, the hollowed cheeks, the curve of his jaw. He looks distraught, which concerns Javert somewhat. He cannot imagine why the other man would be so upset.

“No, you don’t understand,” Valjean says. He worries his bottom lip and his eyebrows draw together, creasing the centre of his forehead. Valjean sighs and looks up. Their eyes snap together.

“Javert,” Valjean says.

There is a way in which he speaks the name, soft and stern, kind and furious, hesitant and reckless all at once. He is an enigma of all kinds and _oh_ , how Javert wants to hear him say his name over and over. He wants to feel the name stifled beneath the press of his lips, he wants to trace a line with his thumb over the throat that speaks the word, he wants to hear the name whispered against the shell of his ear.

“Valjean,” Javert replies, low and breathless. Valjean’s eyes flash, desire fully realised. Javert sees his own want mirrored in the way Valjean looks at him. His face is reflected in Valjean’s eyes, luminous and whole. In that moment, Javert understands.

Valjean kisses him.

It is nothing as it was before. It is not unsteady or unsure, but bright and loud and passionate. Like the flash of the guns at the barricade, it blinds him, and the world is thrown off its axis again yet this time, it is beautiful and transcendent. Instead of confusion, Javert feels an immediate sense of clarity. His mind empties, the thoughts vanish. All he knows is that the man he has chased for so many years is here in his arms, pressing against him with a synchronous desire. And what he knows is that this is right, somehow, in the strangest of ways, this is where it must end, and this is where it will begin.

The lamp flickers beside them both, light dancing over the two silhouettes pressed close together. Perhaps you could be forgiven for thinking they were merged in that moment, transforming into one singular being. The shadows lengthen and shift into other forms as the flame valiantly wards off the night until eventually, it too succumbs to the darkness and the figures that are enveloped within the depths slumber together, content and whole.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe it took me this long to write something for my all time favourite fandom! I recently watched the musical on stage again and it spurred me on to finally actually write this thing that I've had in my head for years. We all know how wonderfully tense the confrontation scene is and it would be so easy to just ah, push that a little further into kissing you know? It basically writes itself


End file.
